Two Poems by Sujata Bhatt

PN Review 61, May - June 1988

Iris

Her hand sweeps over the rough grained paper,
then, with a wet sponge, again.
A drop of black is washed grey,
cloudy as warm breath fogging cool glass.
She feels she must make the best of it,
she must get the colour of the stone wall,
of the mist settling around twisted birch trees.
Her eye doesn't miss the rabbit crouched,
a tuft of fog in the tall grass.
Nothing to stop the grey sky from merging into stones,
or the stone walls from trailing off into sky.
But closer, a single iris stands fully opened:
dark wrinkled petals, rain-moist,
the tall slender stalk sways, her hand follows.
Today, even the green is tinged with grey,
the stone's shadow lies heavy over the curling petals
but there's time enough, she'll wait,
study the lopsided shape.
The outer green sepals once enclosing the bud
lie shrivelled: empty shells spiralling
right beneath the petals.
As she stares the sun comes out.
And the largest petal flushes
deep deep violet.
A violet so intense it's almost black.
The others tremble indigo, reveal
paler blue undersides.
Thin red veins running into yellow orange rills,
yellow flows down the green stem.
Her hand moves swiftly from palette to paper,
paper to palette, the delicate brush
swoops down, sweeps up,
moves the way a bird builds its nest.
An instant and the sun is gone.
Grey-ash-soft-shadows fall again.
But she can close her eyes and see
red-orange veins, the yellow
swept with green throbbing towards blue,
and deep inside she feels
indigo pulsing to violet.

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To My Muse

Come on, take off your turban,
let's lie in this field
of tall grass; come on, take off your turban,
cover me with your softly flowing hair,
your long beard, let's sleep
                  face to face, mouth to mouth
in this field of yellow, violet veined flowers,
                          open-mouthed flowers.
       Let's sleep
deep within this tangled field.

"And the poems?" you ask.
I don't know, I let them go
              as they please.
Some have turned into water,
            the water that rains down
                  every monsoon,
            the water that turns
                          the earth green
                               every year.
"The poems?" you wonder.
Yes, some have turned into water.
Others, thick clusters of green bamboo
                       rain drenched
the slender shoots, the long leaves
              so wet and the ground
reddish brown
       earth-worms swollen with rain water
coil and uncoil, twist and reel
                 in the mud
beneath the bamboo green.

And oh, how the wind comes to dance
           with the bamboo stalks,
        how the wind comes to sing
           with the bamboo leaves.

Listen, sounds almost like the rustle of Mysore silk.
Listen rustling somewhere
maybe a woman in Mysore silk
      is swirling faster, and faster
                    her sari billows out
while the bamboo tops
           nod yes, yes.

Come on, take off your turban,
and I'll comb out your hair.
"But the poems?" you insist.
I don't know I let them grow
               as they please.
Wanting the bamboo forest, thick
              the stalks, tall
wanting them green enough, strong enough
          for the wind -
even Krishna, Dionysus's older brother,
understood. Even Krishna-Govind-Govind-Gopal
said he wouldn't cut
a single stem for his flute.

---

These poems by Sujata Bhatt are taken from PN Review 61, May - June 1988. Further contributions from Bhatt, including the rest of her poems in this issue, are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.